


Wet

by taormina



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Double Entendre, Innuendo, Kissing, M/M, Teasing, Water Guns, boys getting wet, i am supposed to be working on another fic, soft porn without plot, water fights, water play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4158966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taormina/pseuds/taormina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gary had no idea water fights were capable of making him so bloody horny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wet

Weather affects writing. When surrounded by typically British rain, one tends to write songs that fit the mood: usually, slow atmospheric love songs with still the tiniest hint of hope. Come the sun, and those lyrical designs change. Verses become upbeat, choruses take on more layers. Songs become better. It was for this reason (well, amongst . . . _others_ ) that the boys one day decided to head to Los Angeles to get a new perspective on things. They wanted to add sunshine and brightness to their current mix of melancholy and introspect.

The first thing they did when they arrived in California on a blessed Saturday morning was write, write, write. Mark headed onto a sunlit balcony with a melody running through his head, Rob and Gary jotted down random lyrics that they thought sounded “ace”, and Howard and Jason tinkered with songs that they'd written previously. It was an extremely fruitful process, and by the time they reunited at the swimming pool (for such _awful_ lives they lived), they had one and a half song ready to be recorded.

Rob, predictably, soon got bored. He’d spotted a few American mates of his with water guns and super soakers earlier that day, and he got an idea. Not much later, the boys were chasing each other with water guns in the massive Californian villa that they’d rented, their hearts suddenly not set on writing the best song in the world, but getting each other as wet as they could. (Rob had vaguely said something about the person getting the wettest having to wash the dishes for a week. This was a pretty decent incentive, they all thought.)

The water fight had been underway for a few minutes, and Mark, with his fast and small body, had thus far managed to stay completely dry. He spotted a corner on the patio that was well hidden from view and considered staying there until the game was over. He’d rather work on a new song, anyway.

Then he felt something poke the small of his back.

‘Hands up.’ It was Gary. He sounded a bit dramatic; he clearly thought he was starring in one of his American dramas that he loved so dearly.

Mark raised his hands. He was still holding his water gun.

‘You haven't got any other water guns hidden, have you, in those trousers of yours?’ said Gary. He was still pointing his gun at him.

Mark rolled his eyes. _So dramatic._ ‘Would you search me if I did, Mr. Barlow?’ Mark half hoped he would. He quite fancied the idea of Gary bending him over some table, asking him to spread his legs, searching him up and down with those large hands of his. (Mark _had_ quite enjoyed being searched by the hot security guard at Heathrow yesterday. Shh, don’t tell anyone.)

Gary hummed, and Mark took this as a sign to turn around.

Mark looked Gary up and down. What he saw before him was not disappointing. While Mark had taken the precaution to put on a dark shirt – he’d known in advance that Rob was planning a water fight –, Gary had not: Gary was wearing white. Pure, clean, virginal white. As Gary had clearly been utterly annihilated by Jason and Howard's large super soakers earlier, Gary's shirt was now completely, _blissfully_ , see-through. The fabric clung to Gary's skin, hugging his taut stomach. His nipples were hard. His chest hair was visible.

In other words, Gary looked fucking edible, and Mark regretted to find out that the wetness of his apparel stopped somewhere above his belt.

He’d have to do something about that later.

Mark stifled a moan and leant against a white pillar as casually as he could. They were more or less shielded from view by a large, circular staircase that went up to the western balcony, but it probably wouldn’t take long for someone to spot their hiding place. The danger of it all only thrilled Mark more. ‘Nice look, Gaz. Very –’ His eyes shifted to Gary’s stomach, and he forgot what he wanted to say.  

The longer he looked at Gary, the more he felt his self-control disappear. Gary looked good in just about any outfit (okay, _maybe_ not cardigans), but this topped even the grey hoodies that Gary always wore during training. What made those hoodies so tantalizingly attractive, was that they removed every and any trace of muscle and skin, forcing Mark to remember every curve and vein and piece of flesh as he undressed Gary with his mind — the soft cotton of the hoodie making Gary all the more suitable for pre— (or _post_ ) sex cuddling. It was by far Mark’s favourite look.

 _This_ was something else, though. This is what Mark saw every time he and Gary had sex, but _better_. It’s like his perfect body had been framed in a canvas of fabric.

 _Yes_ , they were staying at a villa in LA with journalists and cameras potentially everywhere, and _yes_ , if their band mates walked into them they'd have a helluva lot of explaining to do, but he'd take the taste of Gary's mouth over the state of his reputation any day.

‘Thanks.’ Gary licked his lips. He was thinking the same thing; Mark could tell by the way he was looking at him.

There was the loudening cacophony of water guns and whooping and swearing in the background, and Mark looked at Gary impatiently. They hadn't had a second alone since they got here to write their next studio album (incidentally, they were staying in separate bedrooms, and the walls were so fucking thin that the next door _neighbour_ … in _New York_ would probably hear them shagging), and if they ever wanted to have a moment to themselves, this was it.

Gary realized this too; they had both moved closer unconsciously. Mark’s free hand was on Gary's wet abdomen, marking his territory. _Gary’s_ , meanwhile, were creeping down the small of Mark's back, leaving a trail of water with every caress. He’d thrown _his_ water gun on the floor.

Mark felt his shirt become wetter and wetter under Gary’s touch; it was a stark contrast from the heat that was brewing in his stomach and his chest, and he was beginning to wonder how they would ever peel each other’s clothes off if they got that far today.

Mark closed his eyes and Gary took that as a sign to lean in, his lips closing that final gap between them. Mark sighed contently against Gary’s mouth, and he took control of the kiss immediately: he pressed his body up against Gary’s wet chest, running his tongue along his lover’s lips. He felt Gary’s stubble graze his skin, and all his self-control was gone. He loved kissing Gary more than anything. The only thing that came close was writing, but even writing the greatest love song in the world didn’t quite compare to the taste of Gary’s lips.

Then Mark remembered he was still holding the gun; it was fully loaded with water, and Mark got an idea. A very, very bad idea.

He moved his hand to Gary’s trousers and pressed the barrel of the gun softly against Gary’s cock. It was just the gentlest of touches, but it moved Gary enough to break off the kiss and stare at Mark wildly. Clearly Gary had been craving intimacy as much as Mark had. Mark grinned and rubbed the gun against the bulge that was forming in Gary’s trousers a little harder. Then _harder_. Gary moaned, and that did it for Mark — he slipped the barrel of the water gun into Gary’s trousers and squeezed the trigger gently. Water ran in large amounts down Gary’s trousers, highlighting Gary’s erection with dark, flowing patches of wetness.

‘Oh _fuck_ , that’s . . .’ Gary didn’t know what it was. All he knew is that his lips soon found Mark’s again and that his trousers were suddenly too wet, too tight, too small. He needed to take them off, but he couldn’t, not here.

They continued kissing like that for a few more moments: Gary, wet and aroused and too dressed up for the occasion, his fingernails digging into Mark’s skin; Mark, loving every minute of it. Yet it was Mark who broke off the kiss not much later — there were the gleeful voices of their band mates in the background, and a palpable tension was building in the air. Their mates were getting nearer and nearer. _Trouble_ was getting nearer.

‘We should go,’ Mark said lazily. He didn't sound very convincing.

‘Yeah,’ said Gary, sounding equally as reluctant to rejoin their band mates. He’d enjoyed the kiss as much as Mark had.

Gary stared into his eyes, and Mark felt like Gary was looking right through him. A shiver soared from the top of his head to his feet down his spine — the way Mark _always_ felt when Gary’s eyes were shining with promise. He could never get tired of that look.

Gary pointed out, ‘You don't look wet enough, though, Mark.’

Mark looked at Gary, then at himself. He had a point: Gary looked positively _soaked_ compared to him. He smirked. Mark _could_ simply pretend that he was just very, very good at water fights, but he knew for a fact that someone like Jason (who, by the way, had nearly walked into Mark and Gary “getting it on” two years ago) would see right through that charade. ‘Hm. Bit suspicious?’

‘A bit.’ Gary squinted. An idea was forming in his head. He bit his lip nervously as though trying to decide whether to go through with it, and Mark’s stomach twisted in anticipation. Was he going to . . . ? Thankfully, Gary made up his mind rather quickly and picked up his water gun. ‘Get on your knees,’ he said, pointing the gun at Mark non- threateningly.

Mark raised his eyebrows. He had a feeling that he knew where this was going, but he _loved_ pretending otherwise. It would only make Gary more desperate for him. ‘What?’

‘ _Get on your knees_ ,’ Gary said again, sterner this time, and Mark felt his heart jump; Gary talking control – which, to be fair, didn’t happen as often as they’d both like; Gary was way too fucking gentlemanly for that – was what Mark’s dreams were made of. This was turning into one hell of a “work” holiday.

‘Okay, okay,’ said Mark, and he did as he was told. The hard concrete felt extremely uncomfortable against his knees, but Mark kept that thought to himself.

Gary tapped his fingers on his water gun rhythmically. He must still have one of their new songs stuck in his head. ‘Open your mouth,’ said he.

Mark smirked. ‘You dirty bastard.’

Mark immediately understood. It would be faster and easier if he just hopped into the swimming pool, but hey, whatever floated Gary's boat and all that. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth obediently. He stuck out his tongue for added effect, the little horny devil that he is, and Gary rolled his eyes.

‘ _Slut_ ,’ said Gary. There was an edge to his voice that suggested that Gary was as aroused as Mark felt; Mark knew that Gary liked the theatrics and the sheer thrill of possibly, _probably_ being caught in the act as much as he did — even if he didn’t openly admit it.

Mark's eyes were still closed shut — _waiting_. He still remembered the first time he went on his knees for Gary _so_ well: Howard and Jason had gone out to buy food at the curry place next door, giving Mark and Gary brief ownership of the London studio that they’d rented for the day. The two of them had only just found out that they quite fancied each other (the erection Gary sported every time Mark rubbed his arse during “Pray” was, in hindsight, a dead giveaway; Mark knew the moment Gary passionately defended a verse Mark had written for an album track), so they were still extremely awkward and shy every time they were alone together.

They had been struggling with the chorus of a new song all day. It was more up-tempo than the songs on their previous album, and getting the vocals right was proving to be a difficult task. Gary, ever the perfectionist, liked nailing his vocals on the first try, and the strain of this approach was pressing hard on his mind. Mark beckoned him to get out of the recording booth and relax, and Gary did so. Mark kissed the tension and worries away – gently, at first, because they were still trying each other out at this point of their . . . _affair_ –, and as things usually do in these stories, one thing quickly led to another.

Before Mark knew it, he was on his knees, unzipping Gary’s trousers. Whether he had ended up in this position of his own accord he did not remember; all he remembered was the look on Gary’s face when he sucked his cock; so shocked yet so deliciously turned on — the pressure of Gary’s fingers in his hair, pulling, pulling, pulling — his deep, throaty moans when Mark hit a sensitive spot with his tongue — the moaned expletives when Mark swallowed him deeper, Gary’s hips twitching more and more with every ministration — the way he _groaned_ when he

Gary raised his gun and squirted its contents into Mark’s mouth. The spray of water brushed Mark's face with a steady flow, the excess water dripping slowly down his neck into his loose shirt, wetting the fabric. Mark felt a solitary drop of water run down his chest and his belly and down his trousers, pausing at his hardening cock. He’d let Gary take care of that later. He swallowed a large amount of water, and more drops hit his tongue.

By the time Gary’s gun had run out of water, the top of Mark's shirt was completely wet. Drops of water were trickling down his chin, and his hair was soaked.

He looked _perfect_.

Mark licked his lips. His cock was pressed hard against his trousers. ‘Better, Mr. Barlow?’

Gary slipped his thumb into Mark's mouth, and Mark sucked obediently. ‘Much better.’

The boys were suspiciously absent from that afternoon’s writing session.


End file.
